


Locked Down

by Callisto



Series: Season 5 codas [11]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Coda, Episode Related, Episode: s05e14 My Bloody Valentine, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Season/Series 05, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-09
Updated: 2011-04-09
Packaged: 2017-10-17 19:45:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,541
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/180541
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Callisto/pseuds/Callisto
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>He fixes his gaze on Dean and slowly but surely, his heartbeat slows and the bile in his mouth disappears. He narrows his world to those green eyes in that pale, concerned face and wonders, not for the first time, how he ever let Ruby do this to him.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Locked Down

**Author's Note:**

> _Sam: “Before you go, you better lock me down. But good.”  
>  \--My Bloody Valentine--5.14_
> 
> Beta'd by Ancasta, and of course, this is both of them in the panic room.

Sam wakes up slowly, one bruise at a time. Breathing hurts the most, so he does it as shallowly as he can and tries not to move. There were no restraints this go-around, but he still knows he’s wearing brick dust in exchange for skin scraped along the walls in a few places. He’d kick himself if he thought he’d feel it on top of everything else.

This time he was foolish enough to think he wouldn’t do any of that. Wouldn’t hallucinate, wouldn’t scream, wouldn’t slam off the walls, wouldn’t puke, and wouldn’t piss himself. Shivering in the backseat on the way over, he’d actually let himself believe those two bursts of that old, sweet power would leave him curled up like that, like he had bad flu, maybe. He’d gone into the room voluntarily, and even found a smile and a nod for Dean’s ashen face as he’d done so.

He was so wrong on all counts, he thinks about crying.

He can’t. And it’s not an act of restraint. He physically _can’t_. Just like the last time his body seems to have purged not only the demon blood, but also every atom of water. His eyelids feel glued, his throat is full of sand, his stomach wants to dry heave him right off the bed, and his heart is beating dry knives in his chest.

If he can just hold himself still a while longer, then maybe—

A clink, a scuff, somewhere to his left.

It takes him a moment and a sharp intake of breath, which... _fuck_. But he turns his head to the left and manages to slit his eyes open.

It’s Dean. About three feet away. He seems to be sitting on the floor with his back against the table leg and his legs sprawled out in front of him.

Sam braces himself. The last time he saw his brother, Dean had white eyes and was calling him Lucifer’s whore. He closes his eyes, even though he knows that won’t make any difference. He waits for the inevitable, tense and trying to breathe as quietly as he can. Damn. He really thought he was waking up for sure this time.

He waits, he cramps, and he drifts. Until another noise gets through. Something scraping and rhythmic - a knife on wood maybe? He gets his eyes all the way open this time, blinking to clear the grit, and Dean is still there. Not moving, not yelling, not shining. Just... _there_ , one leg crooked up, one leg straight out, right hand tracing lines on the concrete floor with a piece of wood.

He opens his mouth but nothing happens. He swallows down the ball of ash in his throat and tries again.

“’ean?”

He sounds like an exorcism. Sam swallows painfully and tries to raise his head.

“Sam?” More scuffling. A clatter as the stick falls, and then there are clumsy footsteps and a heavy hand on his neck, in his hair. Sam thinks he might try and cry anyway.

“Sammy. Hey. You with me?”

Sam gulps in air and tries to nod and not throw up. Dean’s hand moves to his cheek. “Ssh... I got you. Breathe easy. Come on, just breathe easy now.” Dean’s voice is low and rough, and Sam holds on to it and does as he’s told, because he really has had it with puking. He closes his mouth and starts breathing in and out through his nose, waiting for his heart to slow and his stomach to settle. And his brother is there, hand never leaving his cheek, and breathing with him as close and solid as a Lamaze partner – Sam really hopes he remembers that for after. He fixes his gaze on Dean and slowly but surely, his heartbeat slows and the bile in his mouth disappears. He narrows his world to those green eyes in that pale, concerned face and wonders, not for the first time, how he ever let Ruby do this to him.

He closes his eyes, because tears or not, that last thought is too much for right now. Dean pats his cheek. “Back in a sec, Sam.” Sam opens his eyes and turns his head to watch Dean walk across to the small bathroom just behind the cot. Dean’s gait is slow and awkward – exhaustion is clear in every step – and he pauses to roll his neck on his shoulders with a crack of small bones when he gets to the bathroom door. Sam turns back and swallows hard at everything this shitty Apocalypse is wreaking on them.

And then Dean is back and pressing a glass of water to Sam’s lips, and Sam can only think that nothing in his whole life has ever tasted this good. Dean’s right hand didn’t even wait for Sam’s elbows to fail, he just slid it around the back of Sam’s head to hold him up. When Dean leans in with the glass, a wave of sweat and alcohol hits Sam, and even as his stomach rebels, he wills the water to stay down. Dean isn’t wasted, but he’s clearly been nursing a bottle of something since they got here. In truth, Sam couldn’t care less and would join him in a heartbeat if he thought his body would let him. For now, he closes his eyes and concentrates on sipping and swallowing. He sputters twice, but Dean just takes the glass back an inch or two and waits, thumb rubbing just behind Sam’s left ear. Then Sam feels the glass guided back to his lips and he drinks again.

It takes a while, and Sam is not sure how much is down his shirt and Dean’s hand by the end of it, but he drains the entire glass. He lies back, exhausted, but already he can feel the water doing its thing, like tendrils of light seeping through his abused muscles. He vows never to take the simple miracle of it for granted again.

“Thank you,” he gets out, fading fast under the onslaught of such unexpected comfort.

Dean’s hand rests on his forehead and he’s out.

 

This time it really feels like sleep. Fevered sleep, but sleep all the same. He still has no idea how much time has passed or is passing, but he no longer levitates, his pregnant mother no longer stabs her belly in front of him, and he no longer feels a bone-deep hunger to escape and feed whenever he surfaces and sees the door.

Plus there’s Dean. Real Dean. Who gets at least two more glasses of water down him, and who then gets Sam up and into the bathroom. Dean doesn’t really say much during any of it, but he’s a solid presence in all the right places as Sam wobbles and coughs and tries to take a piss without falling over.

Back on the cot and he’s out again. When he next surfaces, it feels much more like a natural waking, and there are no shivers of fever to make him crave and question what’s before him. He’s sure he looks like the roadkill that he is, but his throat isn’t as dry and burnt, and he feels as if he can think more clearly again.

And the first thing he thinks of is Dean, who is now perched precariously on a low stool next to Sam’s bed to his left, and who holy fucking hell, looks ten times worse than the first time Sam opened his eyes.

“Dean?” He tries not to panic. All that water and rest have helped his voice, so he tries again. “Dean, what’s wrong?” Shit, was the sleep just another hallucination?

Dean’s face is beyond pale, his hands are pressed together as tightly as his lips, his throat is working, and his red-rimmed eyes are looking everywhere but at Sam. And while there is no bottle in his hand, the smell of alcohol in the air is now much sharper.

Sam’s gut clenches all over again. Has he missed something? Did he say or do something to hurt Dean when he was out of it? Another thought occurs to him and his jaw clenches right along with his gut, because there is something horribly familiar about a drunk Dean unable to look at him. Maybe this is shame, and Dean has dived into a bottle because of it now that Sam is over the worst. Sam tries to steel himself. So be it. He’s lived with shame before from Dean for his addiction. It hurts like a sonofabitch, though, because this time he really fucking tried not to. It wasn’t good enough, and he should be used to that by now, but he’d asked Dean, dammit, he’d _asked_ to be locked down and saved this time. And Dean had looked at him like he’d understood all of that.

Sam searches for something safe to say, to get this started and over with.

“How...how long have I been down here, Dean? Um, is Bobby— ?”

“I nearly said yes, Sam.”

It’s such a broken whisper that Sam almost doesn’t hear it. Dean is leaning right in, the smell of whiskey strong between them, and his hands are clenched fists on his thighs. Dean’s eyes finally lift to find Sam’s, and Sam realizes with a jolt that it _is_ shame, but nothing to do with him.

“I wanted to, Sam. Man, I wanted to so badly. You were in here screaming and bouncing off the walls, and I... I couldn’t... So I went out, to get air. And I looked up, and they were there, y’know? Right on my tongue. The words to just give all this up and let the fuck go.”

Dean bites his lip and sucks in a shaky gulp of air. “I mean, why not? You heard the man, I’m dead already. I’m no use. Not to you, not to Mom and Dad. Or Jo, or anyone else out there looking at me to change things. I’m... I’m... God, I’m so tired, Sammy. And I’m no fucking use anymore.” A tear slips out and down, and when Sam sees it his left hand wraps around Dean’s right wrist. Dean jerks at the touch, and Sam groans at the fire that lances along his torn muscles. But this is his brother in deep, deep trouble; this is Dean breaking loose from all the crap he’s been denying for weeks. And Sam is even back from the brink enough to appreciate the irony of Dean picking his moment to perfection as usual. He takes a steadying breath and tugs Dean to get him closer. He has no idea how long his new found voice or energy will last.

“Bullshit,” he says.

It’s a start. It gets him a couple of long, slow blinks.

“You are not dead already, Dean. I was there, remember? Don’t tell me you didn’t get all your pain back the minute I sucked those demons out. I saw your face, man. I’m pretty sure you had a hunger, the same as the rest of us.”

Sam takes a couple more breaths before he continues. “I’m a recovering addict, what I desire is easy. You? You’re not dead, you asshole.” Sam thinks about what he can say to make Dean believe him. Dean is still with him, silent and watchful, and he realizes he has to take no prisoners. He thinks about how Dean has been these last few weeks and softens his voice right down. “Dean, did you ever think that what you might secretly want above everything, is to feel nothing? To be... I don’t know...free? Free of fighting and feeling like you have to save everyone. Free of watching the people you love die. Free of yelling at heaven and dodging hell.” He swallows. “Free of me.”

“Sam—” Dean is openly crying now.

Sam can’t bear it, but he has to finish this now. He has to make the most of alcohol, his brother’s exhaustion, and the fact that Dean has nowhere to go and no one else to listen to.

He tries to smile to show Dean he means what he says, even though it hurts like hell. “No, it’s okay. I get it, Dean. I do. You’ve got Lucifer’s vessel for a kid brother.” He raises his right hand off the cot, “a guy who’s already gone two rounds and counting in here.”

Dean scrubs his left hand down his face and starts shaking his head. Sam has no idea which part Dean is refusing, but he doesn’t have the energy to sit up and find out. So he tries something he never has before. His hand is still around Dean’s wrist, so he tugs. Dean looks up, confused, and he tugs again. Then he bites his lip, shifts back a little, and tugs one last time.

Dean’s eyes go wide. “Dude...no way.”

But his voice is wrecked, his cheeks are wet, and he’s already moving.

“C’mere. I won’t tell if you won’t.”

It hurts to move like this. Sam aches in places he couldn’t soothe even if he wanted to. He should get up, take a shower, eat, and start in on the scouring out of his heart and mind. But instead he lies on a cramped and filthy cot with his brother tucked all along his left side. They’re both pretty disgusting, Sam is sure of it. He has no idea what exactly is encrusted on his jeans, and Dean still smells like a brewery and the two days and nights of shower-less driving it took them to get here. But none of that matters when Dean wipes his right cheek across Sam’s shirt and sniffs loudly. In amongst all the crap and guilt which has nearly drowned them both, Sam is going to get to be the older brother for once.

“Dead my ass,” he whispers into Dean’s hair. “Dead men don’t crawl into a bottle and then bawl their eyes out, you idiot.”

“Shut up, Sam.”

Scratchy and raw, it still sounds so like everyday Dean that Sam can’t help himself. His own eyes fill. Finally. He closes them and breathes his brother in. He’s going to say it. “Do you have any idea how much of a miracle it is that you haven’t said yes? You’re my hero, Dean. My fucking hero, and you always have been.”

Sam keeps his eyes closed when Dean’s head lifts off his shoulder for a long, long second. He knows he’s being stared at.

Dean’s head goes slowly back down, and he mutters something about idiot brothers under his breath. Then Sam feels a hand hesitantly open and rest palm flat on his chest.

Sam pulls him closer still and almost smiles. That’s it, the faint sound of _them_ sliding back into place.

Dean’s breathing evens out almost instantly after that, and Sam has no idea if he’s fallen asleep or passed out. He takes a moment to peer down the tangle of mud encrusted boots and limbs, and wonders how long they’ll get to be like this. Just him and Dean, fucked up and alone together.

He’s almost asleep himself when he wonders if Cain and Abel were ever this way.

******


End file.
